by Ami Diane
“Do you know where she was found in here?” she asked, straightening.
Marge’s head swiveled, taking in the room. “No.”
Approaching the raven who greedily pecked at his food after his long adventure outdoors, Libby asked him if he wouldn’t mind showing them where Arlene had died. She wondered if she’d ever stop feeling silly speaking to him like this—like he understood.
The bird blinked his beady eyes at her in a way that suggested he didn’t like being disturbed while eating. Despite the death-glare, however, he leaped down, flapping his shiny black wings, and hopped to a spot in the corner.
Marge seemed mildly impressed and unstoppered the vial of her Pathfinder potion while Jasper returned to his perch. Carefully, the older woman squeezed two drops onto the floor.
Libby held her breath, watching the liquid soak into the wood. “Wait, should we be worried about that mixing with the furniture moving potion?”
“Generally speaking, yes. Most potions are not compatible. But since the previous one’s been decaying for years and was spilled in the other room, we should be okay.” While she’d been talking, Marge’s eyes never wavered from the floor. Slowly, she reached into her purse and pulled out two pairs of 3-D glasses.
“Specter Scopes?”
Marge nodded.
Libby stared dubiously at the cheap cardboard frames that were little more than the free ones that came with cereal boxes back when she was a kid. After Marge slipped hers on, Libby reluctantly did the same.
A slight gasp escaped her. Near her feet, a thread of light undulated on the floor, like a luminescent string brought to life. Vibrating, it lifted and hovered in the air, not unlike a very long worm.
“It’s faint.” Marge worried her lip. “The time since Arlene was last here is at the edge of the potion’s ability.”
Upon closer inspection, Libby saw what Marge was referring to. As the string stretched out until one end left the library, parts of it ghosted into nothing like a dotted line.
They traced the path of Arlene’s movements in reverse, starting at her end, and moving towards… well, certainly not her beginning, but at least a few hours before her death.
A concern Libby didn’t voice aloud was how long the venture would take. Considering how she, herself, spent her time, flitting from room to room and running errands, it wouldn’t surprise her if it took them a week before they discovered anything of use.
Just as she’d feared, they spent the next half-hour wandering the house. An awkward moment came when the thread led into the greenhouse, specifically, the corner with Ivy, before Marge stopped, her hand gently on Libby’s arm.
“We don’t need to go further.” Her hand slipping away, she pointed an arthritic finger at a second thread—or rather, the first one folding back on itself.
And like that, they were off again, moving through time again at a faster clip. When the thread led to the driveway, they raced back into the house to grab their car keys.
Standing in the entryway, Libby lifted her set from a hook while Marge dug through her purse.
“Oh, no you don’t. I’m driving.” Without waiting for a response, Libby jiggled her keys and moved to the front door. Fat chance she was getting in the same car with that woman behind the wheel again.
“Hey, I resent that.” Marge put her hands on her hips. “I’m a good driver.”
“Yeah? How many accidents have you been in?”
“Only seven.” Marge’s chin lifted with pride.
Libby swore. “That’s not—no, that’s nothing to brag about.”
“Fine. Whatever. You’re about as much fun as a wet blanket.” Turning on her heel, Marge stalked past the stairs. “I have to use the restroom before we head out.”
“I’ll be waiting in the car.”
Outside, a strong breeze whipped Libby’s hair into her face. She stole a brief moment to take in the incredible view. She’d been so focused on unpacking, finding the Pet Whisperer potion, murders, and intruders that she hadn’t taken a chance to explore the beach yet.
The realization hit her hard. Growing up, she loved visiting the coast with her mother—and for a brief period, her father—building sandcastles and hunting for shells. Occasionally, when she felt up to freezing her toes off, she ventured into the water up to her ankles before running back to warmer sands.
As she climbed into her car, she promised herself once things calmed down, she’d take a long stroll along the shoreline, search for shells, and freeze her feet off in the saltwater.
Far too many minutes later, Marge joined her, and Libby guided the Honda down the steep driveway.
“Alright,” Libby said, “let’s go find out what got Arlene killed.”
CHAPTER 16
VISIBILITY OF THE string came and went, particularly on turns in the road. Marge—who turned out to be just as dangerous as co-pilot as she was pilot—would grab Libby’s arm each time to graciously jab a finger towards the new-found path. Libby lost track of how many heart-wrenching, hairpin turns Marge had made her take.
Another hour, a grocery store, and a dentist office later, Libby parked the car in front of a pawn shop, trying to hide her disappointment. So far, the Pathfinder potion hadn’t led them to any markets—Saturday, Farmer’s, Super, or otherwise.
Marge stood on the sidewalk, craning her neck to read the sign above, a skeptical expression on her face. “What do you suppose she was doing here?”
“Just a hunch, but maybe pawning something?”
“In all the years I knew that woman, not once did she ever step foot into a pawn shop.”
Libby shrugged, opening the door to a dimly lit, red and blue-hued room. Then, she slipped the 3-D glasses off, folded them, and tucked them into her pocket. Without the cheap lenses, the place was still dim and dingy but more monochromatic. She considered putting the Specter Scopes back on.
The smell of mold, dust, and cigars greeted her. What windows there were, were covered with grime, filtering in wan daylight.
Libby’s nose wrinkled. “Eesh, if I had to work here, I’d want to take a long walk into the ocean and never come back.”
“Then, why don’t you?” a scratchy voice asked behind her. “This is my shop.”
Libby jumped and spun. A man stood behind the counter, arms crossed over his chest, sporting a scowl. The top of his head reflected his monochromatic world, and a shadow ran from his cheeks to his jowls that was well past five o’clock.
“And what I mean by that is the place is just so cheery,” she amended, “I couldn’t possibly live.”
Marge’s eyes closed a fraction before speaking to the proprietor. “What my silver-tongued friend is trying to say is we like your shop. It’s got this certain vibe that I can’t put my finger on.”
“Homely,” Libby said.
“She means homey,” Marge corrected quickly.
Libby shot Marge a finger gun while looking at the man. “Bingo. That.”
A growl bubbled in the owner’s throat that was either due to irritation at the two women or from a dairy-heavy meal.
For whatever reason, he didn’t immediately kick them out. “You two looking to buy or sell?” His voice was two sheets of sandpaper rubbing together.
“Actually,” Libby said, leaning on the glass case that served as a counter, “we—”
“Don’t do that.” He motioned for her to get off the glass.
“Sure, sure.” She glanced down and noticed she’d left a handprint behind. She rubbed at it which only resulted in smearing it around. “Hey, is that an I Love Lucy lunch pail?”
Marge cleared her throat.
“Right,” Libby said, focusing. “Anyway, we wanted to ask you about one of our friends who came in about a month back.”
“I don’t snitch about clients. You know what they say about snitches.”
“I do.”
Marge looked back and forth between the two. “What? What do they say?”
“They get stitches.” Lib
by stared at her friend an uncomfortably long moment before deciding to level with the guy—mostly. “Look, one of our friends passed away last month. I’m sure the chances of you remembering a single customer a few weeks ago are slim, and we respect how protective you are over your customers’ privacy. Really, it’s admirable. We just want to know if she came in.”
“I empathize. But I don’t discuss my customers.”
Libby fell silent. She hadn’t expected to run into a wall so quickly—especially a meaty, stubble-covered one. Giving Marge a very pointed look, she used her head to gesture at the guy.
“What?”
“Use a, you know…”
“No, what?”
“Use one of your you-know-whats from in there.” Libby pointed at Marge’s purse. “On the you-know-who.” She clicked her tongue, tilting her head again in the man’s direction.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Marge said. “And quit winking at me. It’s creepy.”
Libby hissed air between her teeth in frustration. “Don’t you have a truth serum or something?”
“No. Why would I have truth serum on me? Do you have any truth serum on you?”
“You know I can both hear and see you two, right?” The owner’s head swiveled back and forth between them.
“You’ll have to pardon this one.” Marge indicated Libby. “She got hit in the head by a bowling ball and hasn’t been right since.”
“To be fair, it was rather large.” Libby held her hands up to indicate the size of the ball.
Marge ignored her. “The woman we’re asking about stole my mother’s broach before she died, and I think she might have been trying to hock it someplace.” Marge dabbed at the corners of her dry eyes.
“What’d the piece look like?”
Marge had pulled out a handkerchief to really sell the act, but at the clerk’s question, her hand froze mid-way to her face. “How’s that?”
“The man wants to know what this heirloom looked like, Marge.” Libby grinned. “Go on. Tell him.”
Marge fiddled with the cloth in her hands. “Well, it was a snow-flake shaped diamond broach—”
“Really?” Libby rested her elbows on the counter, eliciting a growl from the owner as she cupped her chin. “Diamonds, you say?”
“Shut it, Red.” Marge snapped her mouth shut before giving the man a sheepish smile. “It was valuable, priceless really.”
“Haven’t seen that piece.”
“What about the woman?” Libby asked, straightening.
“Dunno. What’d she look like?”
It occurred to Libby that other than a pixelated obituary photo, she had no clue what Arlene had looked like. Her profile picture on their message boards had been of an aloe vera plant. “Marge? Show him a photo of Arlene.”
“A photo? I don’t have a photo.”
“How can you not have a photo?”
“Do I look like I carry a photo album around in my purse?”
“First of all, yeah, you do because you carry every other freaking thing on the planet in there, and secondly, what is this? The 1970s? Show him your phone, grandma.”
Marge’s brows lowered in confusion, but she began rummaging in her purse. “Alright, but I don’t see how that’ll help matters.”
She slid an antiquated, powder blue Nokia across the counter, the kind that didn’t do more than call or text and looked to be about twenty years old.
Both Libby and the owner stared at the device as if it had sprouted legs and danced the rumba on the spot.
“Dear God in heaven,” Libby whispered. “What in the Flintstones is that?”
“My phone.”
Libby poked it. “Can your carrier even service this anymore?”
Marge sniffed and smoothed out her bubble gum-colored jacket. “They threatened to break it if I didn’t upgrade soon.”
“So, I suppose the probability of you taking any photos with that relic is slim?” When Libby caught the blank expression on her friend’s face, she added, “Yeah, it’s slim. So, no pictures.”
Sighing, she dug out her own, modern phone, did a quick search, and pulled up several different images of Arlene, even finding a profile from a popular social media site. The woman had clearly not shared her best friend’s phobia of technology.
She held the screen out to the clerk. “Did this woman come in?”
“Oh, her. Yeah. You shoulda just asked about the woman with the gold.”
Libby exchanged a side-glance with Marge. “What gold?”
“I was working that day when some woman comes in—the one in that picture—dumps a pile of gold coins on this here counter like she was some sort of…” his hand waved in the air, searching for the word. “What are them little green dudes called?”
“Leprechauns?” Libby said at the same time Marge said, “Frogs?”
“Yeah, those guys. She comes in—”
“I’m sorry,” Marge interrupted. “Which dudes was it? Leprechauns or frogs?”
Libby tutted. “You really think he meant frogs? After the gold coin reference?”
The man’s breathing thickened, his patience wearing thin. She was surprised he hadn’t snapped yet.
“Anyways,” he continued archly, “she comes in, dumps all that gold and wants to know how much cash she can get for the coins.”
“Why would she do that?” Libby wondered aloud, which the man took as a question directed at him.
“How should I know?”
“That’s not—never mind.” Turning to Marge, she asked, “Was Arlene experiencing any financial difficulties?”
“Money was tight, but she was getting by fine.”
“May we see the coins?” Libby asked the owner.
“I already sold most of ‘em…” He bent behind the counter. When he came back up, he held a lockbox in a thick hand. “But I held back a few.” After dialing in the combination, he cracked the lid open.
Libby stared at the contents inside. Three small coins sat on a velvet pillow, glittering in the dim light. But what held her interest was a very recognizable president. “They look like pennies, only gold.”
“Strange, huh? They’re authentic gold through and through. Twenty-one karats. She never said where she got ‘em or told me the history behind ‘em. I’m thinking it’s some minter’s practical joke, having them look like pennies.”
“How much did you give her for the coins?”
One of his thick fingers scratched over the shiny swath of skin on top of his head. “Five thousand. She told me she had more. And I told her that if I could move the ones she brought in, then I’d pay her five thousand more for the next lot. I don’t know where she got ‘em, and I didn’t ask. It’s my policy, see.”
“How very discreet of you.” Libby drummed her fingers over the glass counter, ignoring the wince it brought the owner, as she directed her next question at Marge. “What would she need all that money for?”
While Libby and the owner had been speaking, the apothecary had stilled, her eyes a million miles away.
Marge stirred. “She may have had some medical bills she was trying to pay off.”
Frowning, Libby waited for her to expand but the older woman’s eyes glazed over again, deep in thought.
After thanking the owner, they started for the door.
“Oh,” he said, causing both of them to turn. “Don’t know if it helps much, but she did say something about taking the money down to the marina.”
Libby’s frown deepened before thanking him again and stepping out into the cold sun. Once Marge was standing beside her on the sidewalk, Libby regarded her out of the corner of her eye.
“You alright?”
“Fine.” But the reply came out small, nearly blown away in the breeze.
As they strode back to the vehicle, passing a shop making saltwater taffy, Libby asked her if she knew where Arlene had gotten the coins.
Marge didn’t answer until they were seated in Libby’s Honda with the car doors clo
sed. “They were pennies.”
“You mean… oh.” An image of Libby’s first time in the lab surfaced. “When I first came upon the potion book, the page was open to a Fool’s Gold recipe.”
“Since potion making got its start in alchemy, many books have some variation of the recipe. None of them work, of course, but a few master potionists, like Arlene, managed to extend the rate of degradation before the gold transmuted back to copper. Hers was one of the best around.”
“How much time?”
“I think hers was about six weeks, if I remember right.”
“So, within the next few days, that man in there is going to have nothing but copper pennies on his hands?”
“Yep. And a whole lot of angry customers.”
Turning the key, Libby considered steering clear of this part of town for the next foreseeable future.
“There’s one thing bothering me,” Marge began. “Arlene perfected her recipe simply for the thrill of having the best one and the history behind it. She took pride in her work, striving for the best potions on the West Coast. But she would never have used the Fool’s Gold to get money.
“She hated hearing of our kind using potions for nefarious reasons. She once petitioned to have a member kicked out of PMS for giving her son-in-law boils. The sores went away after a day, mind you, but that didn’t matter to Arlene. Once, she even threatened to get me kicked out for a mute potion I used on Bruce.”
“Bruce’s your ex-husband, right?”
Marge nodded, her porcupine hair scraping the ceiling. “I just learned not to tell her about my ventures after that.”
While Libby drove down the road, still following the string that became visible once she slipped the 3-D glasses back on, she thought about the potion that temporarily transmuted copper to gold. Even with her tentative grasp of the chemical structure of metals, she knew this defied the laws of physics, yet these potionists had mastered it—at least temporarily.
When flipping through the book for a recipe that might be worth killing over, she’d dismissed the Fool’s Gold out of hand, figuring it was for parlor tricks.